


Asylum for the Gods

by raviolitheif



Category: Greek and Roman Mythology, Original Work
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Asylum, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-07
Updated: 2017-08-07
Packaged: 2018-12-12 05:51:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11730804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raviolitheif/pseuds/raviolitheif
Summary: prompt: "you are a patient in an asylum where all the patients are seemingly normal. one night, you overhear a discussion between two nurses that uncovers the truth to you: the asylum is a place away from time and space where fallen gods (you and the other patients) will reside for eternity"





	Asylum for the Gods

**Author's Note:**

> not my usual kind of work, but someone wanted a taste of my writing and i didnt want to write mch

The nurses were always sure to remind you that you all were in an asylum, and the almost robotic repetition of the fact made it seem faker and faker as the easy years dragged on. No one in the massive, ornate building fit the profile. Not one patient, yourself included, had any real “issue,” nothing relevant enough to warrant admittance to an institution such as Gomorrah Asylum, at least. For an asylum, it wasn’t set up like one; at least none that you’d ever seen. Long, decorated hallways connected beautiful doors, each one belonging to one of six patients that Gomorrah housed, seven including yourself. The nurses always told you that there were other patients on other floors, but your inability to leave your sector made you wary of whether that was true or not. Your floor was a set of eight doors in total, six along the walls, one at the end, and the entrance that the nurses used at the opposite end. Each door, aside from the nurse entrance, was unique, tailored to fit each personality of the names attached to them. You decided to look at them all once again, curious to see if anything had changed. 

Dorian’s room was the first to the left, his door decorated in ancient and beautiful motifs. Musical notes and miniature harps, glimmering golden drapes dotted with equally golden fairy lights that shimmered regardless of the time of day. Small excerpts from poems new and old were scrawled into the marble pillars framing his door, and sometimes you swore you saw them writing themselves. Above it all, carved effortlessly and beautifully above the entrance, was a lyre haloed by a laurel made of olive branches. Golden pythons with eyes like small galaxies wound down the alabaster pillars that framed the door, curious and mild, their gazes seeming to follow the movements of any who looked upon them. Those who looked at Dorian’s door found peace and light swelling within them. Paired with the door opposite his own, you couldn’t help but feel at ease. You came to rest between them whenever you needed to be calm.

Helvetica’s door was the perfect pair to Dorians, unsurprising for a set of twins. And yet they were so very different, from their mannerisms to their aesthetics. Gone was the marble and gold that Dorian adored, replaced with gorgeous dark wood and freely growing flowers. You had accepted long ago to simply ignore the fact that the plants were actually growing from the wood, which seemed more like a live tree than paneling. It was all alive, and you were never quite sure how Helvetica managed to pull it off. Ferns and roses, magnolias, snapdragons, and even cherry blossoms grew and swayed in the light breeze that only ever seemed to appear when you were near or in Helveticas room. Butterflies and small rodents that you weren’t positive that the nurses were aware of carried on with their daily lives, seemingly flourishing in the miniature setting. Life-like marble statues of deer leapt from the frame, one a doe, the other a buck with lovely antlers tipped with tarnished golden caps. Both deer were covered in moss and small wildflowers. Above Helvetica’s door, the carved image of a bow and arrow eclipsing the moon.

The room next to Dorian’s belonged to Morgan, an outgoing, good looking young man with an eye for fashion and a way with his accented words that had even the most flirtatious of people flushing and averting their gazes shyly. Delicate grapevines grew wild and free up the detailed, intricate marble archway. Statues of tigers and panthers so lifelike they made you run in pure fear the day you had arrived guarded the entrance, dosing in what seemed like permanent lazy sunlight filtering from heaven-knew-where. A single goblet sat on a platform next to a large saucer filled with a sanguine, sweet smelling liquid. The inscription of a wine glass was carved above the archway. You were extremely unsure of how the nurses let Morgan keep what was clearly wine in his possession, but as you had noted earlier, the asylum didn’t strike you as a real place for the ill. 

It was almost as if they were waiting for something. There was an ulterior motive, but you didn’t quite know what it was.

This bothered you greatly.

Across the way was Draven’s door, which soothed what bothered you when you cast your gaze upon it, but began to bother you in... other ways. Weirdly, whenever you looked at Draven’s room, or dared step foot inside, your cheeks grew hot and your thoughts became scattered, hazy. Gorgeous and mighty white wings burst forth from the sides of the door, magnificent and perfect. Candles of various sizes, ranging from tea-light to person-sized littered the entire area around the door, the scent forcing anyone to feel more than just the heat from the candles within them. Small cupids flew up the door, hand painted against the finely lacquered redwood. An anatomically correct heart pierced by an arrow sat above the door frame, carved by a master hand. Stepping closer made your stomach twist in ways not fit for a place so open, but stepping away made your heart ache. There was an unseen force that attracted anyone and everyone, and it only tripled when Draven himself was near.

You decided to leave before anything indecent could cross your blissed out mind.

The next room belonged to a woman named Nala who was agonizingly wise beyond her years and so infinitely beautiful that it brought you trembling to your knees whenever you were graced with her ethereal presence. No one could seem to look directly at her, her beauty so intense that it brought one to tears just to look at one perfect cheek. Thinking about making eye contact with Nala made you simultaneously physically ill and horrendously desperate, and one shared look with anyone else in Gomorrah made it clear that you were not the only one who was struck so fiercely by her radiance. The door to hehr room was more bearable than witnessing her glory, but only just. It was dark, inky black oak that shimmered and twinkled like the night sky, shifting endlessly the longer you looked at it. Tendrils of smoke rose from the few scattered cracks, a few so bold as to caress your cheek before dissipating. A single owl sat watching dutiful guard, its wide, pitch black eyes boring holes into you from its perch. It squinted at you before ducking for a scarce moment, revealing an engraving of the stars and moons. You decided to leave before the owl could decide if it liked you or not.

You made your way to final door before your own, this one belonging to a young man named Oliver. He was a fit, cunning, and had a sea of tricks up his sleeve, but oddly, he made all those around him calm. He was rather somber for someone so clever, but the mix made him an excellent guide in most things. He was also never hesitant to help someone in any sport, which made for a very fit group of patients. You always felt an odd sense of kinship or closeness to Oliver, but you were never sure why. His door was simple, composed of a few stolen objects that no one seemed to miss too terribly. A flower from Helvetica’s door, a fairy light from Dorian’s, a vine from Morgan’s, a candle from Draven’s, and feather from Nala’s owl, and a lone key from your plethora of them. Above the door was an image of a winged helmet.

You turned to your own door and sighed in tired happiness. The hallway, for whatever reason, was extremely long. You thought it was a bit ridiculous for an asylum that only had seven patients, but you weren’t one to question things. You inspected your door before entering your room, always happy to see the decor. Three stone dogs of an identical but unplaceable breed guarded the entrance, sitting shoulder to shoulder, heads close together as if to whisper to one another about those who approached. Their blown glass eyes taunted you once, but now you find nothing but joy when you peer into the shiny depths. Keys hung from strings of varied lengths, trailing down the sides of the door, some silver, some gold, some tarnished and old, but all of them dear to you. The amount grows day by day, but you could never recall how or why. All you knew was that you cherished them all greatly, equally. Your scepter leans precariously against the right side of your door, covered in a greyish moss that you were rather fond of. It shifts, much too heavy for the old, decomposing maple wood that makes up the frame. You left it there anyway, certain that it would never fall. Above your door, an intricate and flowing depiction of an ancient cornucopia, filled to the brim with foods you and the others had only ever dreamed of tasting. You nodded once before heading into your room for the night, dead tired but unable to sleep.

You knew sleep would come eventually, unwilling to consume the pills that the nurses passed out before bed every night. You had stopped taking them ages ago.

They made you feel wrong.

Just as you were about to drift off, papery lids heavy and fluttering closed, two voices made themselves known.

This was not your conversation.

You listened anyway.

“I’m afraid it’s not working,” said one voice, nasally and irritating. “Number Seven seems to be realizing, seeing. What if they spread the information to the others? Cronus, we aren’t equipped for that.” Number Seven? That was you! Why were they talking about you in front of your own door? What information did they mean? Equipped for what?

“They were going to find out sooner or later, Rhea. We can only hope that Number Seve- no, Hades just thinks that they’re going mad.”

Rhea... Cronus? Hades? You recognized those names, but from where?

“The other fallen gods are already catching on, Cronus, we can’t lie forever,” Rhea whispered, and for some reason, you felt her look your way. “We have a guest,” she said, lower still, accusation in her voice.

“So we do,” Cronus agreed, and you felt his attention shift your way. You felt as if you made direct eye contact through your door, and suddenly it all clicks. Your dogs, the statues, they were hearing for you. You were using them to listen, and Cronus and Rhea had realized too late.

Before anything else could happen, a blinding burst of memories hit you all at once, as subtle as a train wreck and just as devastating. Names, places, powers, meanings, everything from before your fall to Gomorrah “Asylum” became clear as day. You were Hades, god of the underworld. The statues outside your door were not statues but your guardian, Cerberus. The doors belonged to Apollo, Artemis, Dionysus, Eros, Nyx, and Hermes respectively. You had fallen and this was where you were being held; in the Asylum for the Gods.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for putting up with such a random break from overwatch if youre a regular fan of mine!


End file.
